


The Convoy

by LittleSlugLand



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, injuries, wounded Zevulon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSlugLand/pseuds/LittleSlugLand
Summary: The convoy was ambushed. Zevulon Veers is the only survivor.
Kudos: 15





	The Convoy

Commander Zevulon Veers felt ground erupt beneath the armoured transport. The heavy vehicle was lifted into the air for the moment, before hitting the ground with a loud thud. The roar of the explosion was deafening,then everything was darkness. He had no idea how long he was out. He had no idea how long he was out. He opened his eyes, the world was dark and smelled from burned plasteel and something organic...fried. Zevulon tried to move but searing pain in his left leg made him stop for the moment. The better leverage would help him to prop himself up a bit. His hand went through something soft and cold, before he realized what the soft mass of snake-like things clung for a moment on his hand as he plunged it into the torn belly of the corpse of an unfortunate lieutenant, who was sitting next to him. The circuits cracked, the sparks of electricity illuminated the ruined interior of the transport. The damage was extensive and those who travelled with him were scattered around. The blood was everywhere. Nothing moved. Zevulon´s leg was at a strange angle. Broken. He slowly sat up ignoring the pain and took several deep breaths. He heard soft creaking of metal but nothing organic aside his own panting. There was only pain, which was growing worse every minute. He was not bleeding, the blood on him was from others not his. That was good news. He had more time. What happened? It was not important. The important thing was what was happening now. He was alone. He was on his own in the middle of the area suspicious for rebel activity. Suspicious? The rebel activity was confirmed, he thought sourly. He called out, no answer. The soft sounds of the metal. The rest of the convoy had to be in similar shape. The ambush was successful. The convoy was destroyed. He was alone. He closed his eyes and for a heartbeat, he contemplated giving up, but ruled it out as unworthy. He was Veers and Veerses were never giving up. They fight till the bitter end. When his father caught him after his defection. He had had every reason to believe, he was about to die. Killed by his own father's hand as disgrace or executed as a traitor by anonymous firing squad. He understood his mistake. He learned and his father forgave him. He shaped him into the man he was now. His duty was to fight. He tried to move again. His leg was one problem. His head hurt. His left arm was pinned, yet he could with rocking movements a bit of force to get it free. He felt his legs and hands and could see. He could fight too. He crawled a bit to the med kit and pulled it out of the straps. He worked on his leg, putting it into a split with bacta bandage after a shot of painkiller. The light from sparking the wires was not giving him enough light, but he was now used to working in semidarkness. He moved a bit. The transport was upside down. The hatches were blocked. Nothing could go in, but it meant he could not get out. Unless he found the other way. He had no idea how long he was in damaged transport. It was irrelevant. He had to get out. He crawled to the driver’s area or at least he thought it was the direction. The air smelled with ozone, grease and blood. He could still breath even if he smelled a trace of smoke. There should be a crack in armour, which prevented him from suffocation. The rescue. He thought about it for the moment. He had no idea how long he was unconscious, which was a problem. If the rescue was dispatched, they would be already there. He was on his own. He managed to get some tools and started to work on the hatch. It was getting loose inch by inch, but still not enough when his tool broke. He was breathing heavily. He was now truly left to have only one option for survival. The rescue. He asserted the situation and he was hurt, exhausted in the damaged can, which he had no chance to open. There would be search to the degree, which was possible in this rebel infested area of the planet torn by civil war. The convoy had to reroute as he was informed due the minefields and to avoid the heavy fighting. They were gone many miles off the expected route. He heard the faint sound or artillery. The fighting had to resume again, but was so distant to help him locate his position. He decided to do only things he could do. To give the world signal, that somebody survived inside the twisted metal. He took the broken tool and started to hit the metal. He soon found the rhythm and the metal resonated under his hits. He was buried alive hitting the lid of his coffin. He chastised himself for such morbid thoughts. He took a break and listened, before resumed the rhythm. He focused on that. It was his only chance, or rather typical Veers stubbornness to give up. He was exhausted. The painkiller wore off hours ago and pain was now his only companion. He forced his body to move. To fight. The sleep was for the dead. He was still alive. Suddenly he heard the noises outside. The calls muted yet distinguishable. The rebels were looting the destroyed convoy. His desperate situation went to the next level of FUBAR. He knew he had not to end in their hands alive. The death then. He made his decision. He would go down fighting, he would kill as many as possible. He reached for the blaster and put it on his lap and other at hand, before he resumed the beating on the wall of his metal coffin. The sounds attracted them and the voices sounded excited. The sound of grind cutting the metal told him what he needed. The end was near. The moment rebels got in, the situation would change drastically. He was hurt. He had two blasters. He was dead, but so would be those who enter. The sparks showered his tomb. He was patient. He needed them to open it. The cut was making the hole in the metal, one more cut and heavy blow knocked the cut piece inside. The daylight hurt his eyes, blinding him for a moment. He didn’t wait for his vision to clear and fire on point blank into hole. The blaster shot went through someone's head, the soft thud of the body. There were screams and another rebel poked in only to have his face blown off by Zevulon’s shot. The curses were heard. He finally saw the sky through the hole. He aimed well on anything appearing in it, but the enemy learned their lesson and the fire was returned ricocheted around the walls. He was not hit by a miracle. He kept shooting. He was trapped. One blaster was empty and he took another. He could hold them for some time. His time was measured by energy packs for his blaster. It was not infinite. Zevulon Veers would die here. It was the end, but he refused to accept it. He fired. He was killed. He was holding his position. He wondered why they were throwing grenades or two in the hole or using a flamer to roast him. They were limited to blasters, why? The new sound of the cut metal was heard. They were making the hole larger. They would expose him from his cover to have a clear shot. He changed the power pack in his blaster and prepared for the unavoidable. The high pitched sound of the TIE fighters and the barrage of laser fire shook his steel prison. He heard the howls and curses and screams of rebels. The sound of the landing aircraft added the roar to the cacophony of carnage. The sounds of the cleansing slaughter. He would recognise the blaster fire of well trained stormtroopers anywhere. He stood up and moved to the hole, grabbed the edge and hauled himself up and climbed from places, which had a chance to be his final resting place. The wreckage of the next transport was smoking several meters from his own, wedged between two burnt trees. About thirty meters in front of him was a Lambda-class T-4a shuttle. The stormtroopers were cleaning the area. The blaster fire and even more personal close quarter means were used. He spotted a tiny officer moving swiftly around the white figures. He noticed that his service blaster was holstered. He had in his hands nasty looking bloodied sickles and moved fast slaughtering his way towards Zevulon’s destroyed transport. Zevulon slid on the hull down and yelped when his leg reminded him of his injuries. The officer was at his side cutting Zabrak in rebel camo almost in two, killing him instantly. The blood was covering the petite man from head to toe. It took Zevulon second to realise,who was standing in front of him. Who moved to his side and put his hand around his bony shoulders. He was too shocked. It was impossible. He should be a meek, soft weakling naval officer, who had never got into hand to hand combat. His father told him that there was something in Admiral Piett deep inside, which he saw only once. The predator. Zevulon dismissed it as impossible, he was gravely wrong.  
  
“Zevulon, I am here and everything will be alright. I promised your father to keep you safe. “ the soft whisper in his ear made him swallow.


End file.
